Circumpolar
by Maleficus
Summary: In his seventh year at Hogwarts, Draco has finally become useful to his father and the Death-Eaters. His role to play is one he never expected: the role of sacrificial pawn.
1. Prologue

***Circumpolar***

  


Prologue

  
  
On a normal night, it took Draco Malfoy at least an hour to fall asleep. He was a light sleeper, and his body was very particular about certain conditions being met before it relaxed its grip on consciousness. The room had to be quiet and dark, the air cool and his blankets warm.  
  
This night, however, with the temperature soaring into the nineties even past midnight and his bedroom at the manor stubbornly resisting any Cooling Charms cast on it (A Malfoy is unaffected by his environment at all times), Draco knew that sleep was a long way off. Despite his father's insistence that Malfoys did not sweat, Draco could feel an unpleasant pool collecting in the small of his back as he lay sprawled, face-down, on his mattress. All the covers had been kicked off his elegant four-poster bed, especially that black and silver monstrosity that was roughly as hot and heavy as an overweight, sleeping bear.  
  
His (numerous) detractors probably imagined that Draco spent his downtime plotting his own masterful rise through the ranks of the Death-Eaters. Often he did, but currently he was trying to think of things like glaciers, a bathtub filled with lime sherbet, and making quite sure none of his body parts touched. His pale limbs were stretched wide, fingers splayed.  
  
It was England's hottest summer in living memory. Some of the ghostly servants and various Malfoys who had left the mortal coil but not the Manor compared the godawful heat to the similarly oppressive summer of 1876. Luckily for them, they had no corporeal bodies, and were unable to feel the flattening heat this time around. Draco, who went around each day with his hair plastered to his face and neck, was not so lucky.  
  
Reflexively, his mind turned to Potter, as it did more that was probably healthy. He hoped fervently that wherever the Boy Who Lived was, he was stickier, sweatier, and at least fifteen… no, twenty-five times as miserable as Draco was.  
  


*** ***

  
  
Draco pointed his wand at the sky. "Snow," he instructed the blue haze. It ignored him, although an inchworm dropped down from the maple tree he was situated under to dangle in front of Draco's nose. He was about to Transfigure the inchworm into a ladybug, just to ruin its day, when his father suddenly appeared directly in front of him.  
  
"Draco." Lucius was dressed in heavy black robes and showed no signs of discomfort in the noon sunlight. "Frank Parkinson will be joining us for dinner. I expect you to be there…," His father's granite eyes swept over Draco, who wore nothing but shorts and a petulant expression. "…dressed appropriately." He paused briefly, a tactic Draco recognizing as prefacing either an important pronouncement or a biting insult. "I'll need you to attend us afterwards, as well. In my study."  
  
Draco grinned madly once his father vanished. An invitation to join his father in his study. Draco was no longer standing around the periphery of the Death-Eaters; now he would be joining the war.  
  


*** ***

  
  
Dinner was typical, aside from the stifling air of the Great Hall. Narcissa made idle conversation, Lucius presided with maleficent authority, and Mr. Parkinson's violet eyes darted nervously from Lucius to his son. Draco himself barely tasted his food. His stomach was dancing with nerves, his mind nearly bursting with pride and happiness at being included at last. Even this, however, couldn't completely distract him from the sweat trickling down the back of his neck and the strands of his fine hair sticking along his jawline. He longed for the cool air of the Slytherin dungeouns.  
  
Mr. Parkinson's nervous gaze alighted on Draco for a moment. "Pansy sends her regards, Dra-,"  
  
Lucius cut him off peremptorily. "That was a lovely dinner, 'Cissa," he said as he pushed back from the table, as if Draco's mother had been even the slightest bit responsible for it. She smiled back wanly. Draco and Mr. Parkinson mimicked the move, obeying Lucius as he bade them follow with a flick of his cane.  
  


*** ***

  
  
Draco tried not to look around in fascination. He had been banned from the dungeon room in which Lucius did all his spells and potions since he had come into his powers at the age of ten. It had been a rather precipitous event: a black swan that had made the mistake of biting Draco suddenly found itself several hundred feet away and up a tree. The beast that had begun the day as a majestic bird suddenly found itself a squirrel, and since, both the squirrels and swans stayed well away from the youngest member of the Malfoy family.  
  
The "study" was a bare, stone-walled room without decoration or furnishing; accoutrements could be summoned as needed. Scars on the wall spoke of manacles long since banished, a scorch mark on the floor was all that remained from a potion gone awry… or perhaps an "_Incendio_" that had fulfilled its intended purpose.   
  
"Now, then," Lucius drawled, looking down his nose at his shorter son. Draco felt a flare of fear/excitement under his ribs. He met his father's gaze through silvery lashes and was rewarded only with the narrowing of Lucius's grey eyes, the mirror to his own. "Shall we begin?"  
  
Without changing expression, Lucius pointed his wand at his own son. "_Silencio. Immobialarus,_" the wizard intoned, almost lazily. Draco couldn't even widen his eyes in surprise.  
  
"Frank, if you please." The corner of Lucius's mouth lifted, the Malfoy equivalent of a pleased smile. Lucius stepped aside then, leaving the field of Draco's vision, which the boy could no more change than he could reverse the tides.  
  
"A hand gripped his chin, and Draco found himself looking into violet eyes. Pansy's eyes, he thought irrelevantly as Mr. Parkinson began murmuring in Latin, words that Draco's shocked mind was unable to translate. Pain blossomed deep within him, crawling up his spine and through his synapses. His body begged to respond to the agony, to thrash about or scream into until his throat bled. All he could do, however, was stand and stare.  
  
And then, "_Obliviate._"  
  
Surcease.  
  


*** ***

TBC... 


	2. The Hogwarts Express

A few notes: I started writing this prior to OoTP's release date, so I didn't incorporate some of OoTP's plot points into the story yet. As I go along, I'll try to address them so it fits into a post OoTP timeline. The POV for the story will be mostly Draco, but occasionally Harry as well.  
  


***The Hogwarts Express***

  
Had the gesture not been leagues below his dignity, Draco would have sighed in relief when he stepped aboard the Hogwarts Express. It was blessedly cool in its hallway, and all around him students were beginning to come out of the heat-induced torpor that had plagued them in the confines of King's Cross Station. Girls (and Draco) were gratefully pulling their hair from their necks, boys shaking hands in greeting, when physical contact would have been unthinkable minutes before.  
  
Having deposited his trunk and his eagle-owl, Agrippa, outside, wrinkling his nose with a fine disdain for manual labor, Draco was now free to roam the train and indulge in his yearly tradition of hacking off Potter. He had done it every year since they had first arrived at Hogwarts. Admittedly, the first year, Draco had put in a bid for Potter's friendship only to be utterly rebuffed. Ever since, Draco had made it his personal mission to get Potter on the defensive before school had even begun.  
  
Predictable Potter, Draco thought as he paused in front of the same compartment he had found The Boy Who Lived in the year before. At this angle, Draco was able to see the dark-haired boy's reflection against the compartment door. He was staring moodily out the window (_of course, he's as bad as I am_), alone. For a moment, Draco stayed there, out of Potter's sight, watching, but soon got bored and slid open the door.  
  
"Out, Malfoy," Harry said quietly, without taking his gaze from the window.  
  
Draco, of course, ignored him, but took his wand out of his pocket as a precaution before he threw himself down on the cushion across from Potter, legs flung out across the entire seat.  
  
Potter finally turned away from the window and regarded his nemesis, green eyes ringed with what appeared to be exhaustion. "Shouldn't you be at the prefects' meeting?" he asked. Draco noted with some satisfaction the hard line along the Gryffindor's jaw where he was apparently clenching it to keep his cool. "Or did they kick you out for being a murderous git?"  
  
"Turned in my badge," Draco replied evenly, ignoring the gibe about his father… for now. "Felt that my position of authority didn't jive with some of my other interests. Maybe Goyle's in charge now, I don't know." He gave a deceptively casual shrug.  
  
Potter leaned forward, hands on his knees. "Other interests, Malfoy? Like what, recruiting more little murderers for you father? You know, they did that during World War II, as well. Trained little kids to hate so when they grew up-,"  
  
"Whatever, Potter," Draco brushed him off smoothly. "I notice you're all alone, as usual. Where's the bravery brigade? Not keeping their glorious leader company, that's for sure." He got no reaction, so Draco kept prodding with cold calculation. "Weasley and the Mudblood would be at the prefects' meeting, of course, but what about the rest? Girl Weasel, Longbottom, Finnigan… they couldn't be bothered to spend time with you, eh?" He smiled then, a smile that caused Potter to reach inside his robes. "Or maybe they're just afraid that association with you will get them killed. Like dear, departed Cousin Sirius."  
  
Like a striking snake, Harry was suddenly diving forwards to throttle Draco, his hands questing for the blond boy's throat. Draco had been expecting the violent reaction and got himself out of the way quickly. He got to his feet, wand securely held in his fingers, and rolled his eyes at Potter.  
  
Glass-green eyes seething, spectacles askew, Potter rose so that he was chest to chest with Draco. The Slytherin noted with unwelcome surprise that he had to look up to meet Potter's glare, but kept his face a mask of careful indifference. "Temper, Potter," he drawled. "What will the Ministry have to say if you attack a fellow student with your bare hands? The Boy Who Lived- Unhinged! Crazy Harry Potter attacks the son of-,"  
  
"Of a man who has ordered the deaths of hundreds? Of a Death-Eater?" Harry supplied, cutting off Draco's words. "Get out, Malfoy, before I do something you'll regret."  
  
The look in Potter's eyes was dangerous, and Draco found himself worried for his own safety, but managed a bland smile. "You brave types are just filled with tired cliches, aren't you, _Potter_?" he asked, spitting the name out like an epithet. He thought for a moment about the next move in his endless chess game with Potter, but suddenly found himself being hauled backwards roughly.  
  
"Oi, Malfoy!" an angry yell sounded in his ear. Weasley, he identified; the voice certainly matched the freckled arms around Draco's neck and upper torso. "Leave Harry alone," the redhead snarled, yanking Draco out of the compartment and into the hallway. "If I see you back here, you'll be in detention for months."  
  
Draco schooled his features into a scowl until Weasley retreated back into Potter's compartment, surely to moan about how awful Draco was, and then smiled to himself. Another year begun on the right tone: Potter all hacked off and resentful, his little friends squalling about Draco's shortcomings. As he passed the snack cart, Draco procured several chocolate frogs for himself with a murmured "_Accio_.". Munching thoughtfully, he set off for the compartment that would have been reserved for him by his cabal of loyal Slytherins. It was time to check in with them; no doubt their dim little brains were growing worried by now.  
  


*** ***

  
  
Harry was shaking with rage as he thought of Draco's casually cruel mention of his godfather. Someday, Harry knew, he and Malfoy would meet in battle, and Harry would take great pleasure in ripping the Slytherin's silver-blond hair out strand by strand before killing the little monster. So intent was he on his anger that he didn't notice that Hermione had filed in and sat down next to Ron.  
  
"Careful, Harry, you'll break your wand," Ron said cautiously, having noticed that the fingers of Harry's right hand were curled in a death grip around his wand. He and Hermione exchanged a Significant Look that they thought Harry didn't see, and then turned to their friend with identical expressions of concern.  
  
"Come on, Harry," Hermione cajoled in that tone that set Harry's teeth on edge. "Don't let Malfoy get to you, he's just pushing your buttons." Her face, surrounded by her bushy dark hair was so earnest that he wanted to hit her. Why couldn't they see?  
  
"Yes, Harry," Harry mimicked, rolling his eyes. "Don't let Hitler get to you, he's just pushing your buttons. He's just a genocidal maniac, nothing to get yourself in a tizzy over."  
  


*** ***

  
  
Draco pushed the door to his compartment open and strode in, hoping he presented the air of a successful general. His three henchmen (Bulstrode having giving up any hopes for femininity) eyed him with concern, apparently unable to operate without instruction from Draco. He ignored them for the most part, and settled himself on the seat saved for him, nodding at the girls.  
  
Pansy Parkinson should have been beautiful. Taken separately, each of her features (thick mahogany hair, snub nose, full lips) were charming; placed together, they didn't quite jive. Looking at Pansy's face was like taking in a Picasso painting; disparate pieces forced together to make an unsettling whole.  
  
She looked up from her sketchpad and met Draco's contemplative gaze, catching his eyes with her own. Pansy's eyes were her claim to fame. A true violet that had been bred into the Parkinson family through selective breeding, they were gorgeous and nearly as familiar to Draco as his own mercurial grey. Now though, her gaze made Draco distinctly uneasy. Something skittered along the paths of his memory, but when Draco tried to capture the thought, it was gone.   
  
His remaining leftenant, Blaise Zabini, had seemingly gotten into Slytherin for her ambition to sleep her way to the top. The Zabinis were _nouveau riche_, and _nouveau mauvaise_ as well, having only been established as an important family in the last few years. Still insecure about their rank, Nicolo Zabini had given his tacit approval for his daughter Blaise to snare herself an advantageous marriage… by any means possible.  
  
She was a true beauty, which got under Pansy's skin to no end. The thick white streak falling from her brow and down through the rest of her auburn hair had given her her name, and her eyes were so dark as to be almost black. Aside from Draco, who disdained to touch the castoffs of the likes of Marcus Flint (that troll), few had been able to resist sampling the charms of Blaise's perfectly proportioned body. She was sidling closer to Draco even as he thought about her, but he ignored the warm pressure of her thigh against his own.  
  
"I just got back from Potter's compartment," Draco announced with a feral smile. "Got him worked into a right state, I did. Seems my cousin Sirius Black is quite the sore spot." Puzzled by the lack of reaction from his cronies, Draco cocked his head to the side. "Well?" he demanded of Pansy, who looked almost disdainful.  
  
"I just thought that…," she trailed off under Draco's hard gaze and cleared her throat before continuing, " that with all the new responsibilities our parents gave us this summer, picking on Potter seems, well, childish. I mean, not that you're childish, Draco, I'm sure you have good reasons, maybe orders from your father…,"  
  
Draco's brain was racing, he barely heard Pansy backpedaling from her disapproval of Draco's actions. _New responsibilities? Are they taking part in Death-Eater plots?_  
  
"-But my father told me to leave Potter alone, at least until, you know," and Pansy dropped her voice to a whisper, "the _plan_." To Draco's everlasting astonishment, everyone else in the room, even Crabbe and Goyle, were nodding in agreement. _Why don't I know about this? What_ plan?  
  
Draco found himself nodding as well. There was no sense in letting the Slytherins know that their leader was out of the loop. _Doesn't father trust me enough to let me take part? I'm a_ Malfoy, _dammit!_" Draco resolved to owl his father first chance he got, and find out what part he was to play in this plan that everyone else but him seemed to be aware of.   
  


***  
TBC


End file.
